Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Author’s note: Welcome to my latest story. I’ve gone down a very different path from my prior efforts with this one. Naturally I hope you enjoy it. It begins slowly and builds along the way, so if you’re looking for a quick stroke, you should skip ahead to the next chapters (you won’t have any trouble catching up with the narrative if you do). On the other hand, like any good fuck, it starts slow and has lots of climaxes along the way.
And, as usual, please offer constructive comments; I do this to improve my writing skills and offer some small bit of pleasure to readers of erotica.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Her house, Emily knew was called a “pile,” a name that always made her giggle. It sounded slightly dirty, like a turd. But the house was not a turd, she scolded herself. It was…embracing…and…welcoming. Its roofs and dormers, some in shadow some brightly lit in the early morning sun, brought back the rush of childhood memories, warm and loving…and more recently, deeper and darker.
From the street it looked low and squat, but she knew that was a trick. When you compared it to the gangly Victorian next door it was roughly the same height. But where the neighboring house was thin and tall, its porch columns painted with contrasting colors on their inset panels, her house was broad shouldered, wide and white.
She’d grown up in this house. It was the only place she’d lived until this past year. She had been looking forward to coming back, expecting her homesickness to evaporate as soon as she pulled up. But the feeling lingered, as if simply being here wasn’t enough. Sitting in the car, the silent movie of her life played across the stage of the house: The front porch where she spilled lemonade and the swarm of ants that followed. The writhing black mass wasn’t one of the pleasant memories. She shivered at the fading image. The driveway, straight in front of her, an arch framing its path as it led deeper into the property. It hadn’t always been like that, she remembered: the garage used to be up front. But after one of her mother’s remodels (the memory of the construction, the warnings, the mystery, the danger her 10 year old self believed so intensely) it was now set far back from the street. And the driveway itself, once asphalt, until that crew discovered the original brickwork. The cobbled surface kept her transfixed, dull orange and brown, black and gold, lit dramatically by bright sun and deep shadow. That memory was more pleasant.
Grabbing her bags from the back, she paused again to look at the front of her house. Nothing had changed since she left, but now she looked at it with different eyes. This face of the house was a mask, the thought suddenly occurred to her, hiding her personal memories behind its neutral façade. The important parts of the house couldn’t be seen from where she was standing. Important to her. Important because of what she had learned last year about the house, about herself. Important because of how she had changed; both the house and herself. The house held her secrets. So far as she knew, it remained a trusted guardian. Today, now that she was back, she would let go of those secrets, and by letting go of them, release their power over her, letting her be who she was meant to be.
Secrets. Bright, intense, dark, intense. In spite of all the evidence last summer, she wasn’t in control of what had happened. She’d deceived herself. And, she reminded herself, she wasn’t in control of what will happen. The memories of The Study washed over her, the room itself hidden in the far back, buried behind the bulk of the pile. She stopped to take a breath, her eyes glancing at her mother’s garden: the scarlet germaniums, the jonquils, the spears of gladiolas. So many emotions, bright and dark, just like the sunlight and shadow across the flower beds. Her eyes rested on the cluster of rosemary that framed the steps leading up to the front porch. They teared up with the rush of memories, and with them, another wave of emotions.
Her eyes glanced at the peach tree, almost in blossom, a wave of emotion from that day exactly one year ago! She had to stop and catch her breath. She hadn’t realized the coincidence. As if! And then her eyes cast down to the tree’s well, awash in red carnations, her thoughts returning to earlier summers’ sweet innocence. Sweet and melancholy, when she ran through the house without a care in the world. And the more recent memories, more ambiguous, intense soaring highs when she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for, and the panic and anxiety when she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for. Just glancing at the driveway stirred up how she’d felt when she’d left for school: guilt, liberation, self-incrimination, victory. She knew now, after being away, that she’d never been in control of her destiny, that The Study had entangled her long before the summer began. She looked across to the bed of daisies and casino oyna saw that her mother must have removed them. How much really was of her making and how much was…Was it only last summer? It felt like a lifetime. She turned her head as her eye caught a movement at the front door.
“Hey stranger!”
“Hey Boopsie!”
Her parents were already half-way off the porch, smiling and shouting their greeting. She wiped her eyes, sniffled and returned a smile, dragging the suitcase for two steps before her father grabbed the handle in one hand, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders. Her mother crushing her head in a tight embrace as if Emily were the only thing between her and drowning.
Emily let them drag her into the house, unconsciously fending off the offers of food and drink, focusing her attention instead on re-entering this place that had meant so much to her her whole life.
“Let me go pee!” She said with a laugh and peeled off to the half-bathroom in the hall. Even here, a room her mother redecorated with regularity, she couldn’t escape the sense of homesickness. An odd feeling, she thought. I am home. Can I be homesick for my home because of my home? She wiped, crinkling her nose at the odor, flushed and washed her hands. “Nice to see the soap hasn’t changed,” smiling at her reflection. And then she saw the hand towels and remembered how it had all started, that first time in the kitchen. Her eyes darted to the soap triggering earlier memories, from her childhood, momentarily washing last summer’s away.
The small pillows of soap; her mother kept them stocked just for this bathroom. None of the others, she stopped to test herself, mentally counting all of the bathrooms in the house. Seven. Seven? Is that right? Wiping her hands, she visualized all of the bathrooms starting in the basement. One, no two! she realized, the new one off the bar from last summer’s remodel, although it barely met her definition of a bathroom, three for the main bedrooms, plus hers, the master, this one and…and…one off the kitchen. Eight. Nope. The one in the garage. Nine. Nine bathrooms! None of the others had this soap in them. Or at least they hadn’t when she was growing up. As a little kid, she’d never given much thought to how many bathrooms they had. Only when she’d reached high school did she realize it was unusual. Still, even then it was just quirky. But by the time she started university she understood that this house, her upbringing, and the events of last summer were anything but normal. Nine bathrooms was the least of it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“You’ll be okay, Em?”
Her mother looked up from the picnic basket she was packing in the kitchen. Emily had just come down. It was the Saturday her parents were leaving, and she’d slept in. Yawning, she opened the fridge to grab some O.J. “Yes, mom. For the tenthteenth time. I’ll be fine. I know how to reach you, and Mrs. Meyer will be looking out for me like an owl.”
“Em!” But her mother smiled primly, nesting and stacking containers into the basket.
The food. The yearly ritual of the food.
As if reading her mind, her mother looked up and laughed. “You know I hate to cook the first day. This should get us through until I sort out the larder.”
Emily scratched her bottom while she watched the process, a process she’d witnessed every summer of her 18 years. This was the first time she wasn’t joining them on their northern trek to the country house aka “the cabin” in Maine. She had a pang of misgivings, quickly replaced by a tiny cramping in her gut…excitement at the prospects of having the house to herself all summer.
“No parties, Em,” they had both laid down the rules earlier in the week when she confirmed she was staying. “Seriously. A few friends are fine, but please don’t take advantage of the situation.”
That was code: nothing illegal, at all, and if you do something illegal you better not get caught, so don’t be stupid.
Stupid was one thing Emily Bronson wasn’t. Fourth daughter of a regionally famous artist (Mother: Jen Wafton Bronson, heiress to old money) and a corporate attorney (Father: James Jeremy Bronson, very much not from old money, but top of class and youngest partner in one of the oldest white shoe firms in the city), Emily Anne Wafton Bronson was smart, headstrong and a little too sure of herself.
She had been working out how to take a vacation from her parents since Easter, when they usually started making plans. She didn’t say anything at the time, but when her friends had suggested they were hanging out this last summer before college, the whisper of the idea drifted into her consciousness. And the first thing she thought was how naughty it would be. Naughty! That’s what she thought that night. And that flush of a feeling warmed her insides, an itch between her legs. What was she thinking? Would this be the summer?
But she couldn’t canlı casino figure out how; she didn’t have any boyfriends. None of the guys at school were at all interesting. Even though they buzzed around her constantly, she never led them on. She wasn’t even interested in them enough to be a cock-tease. Sometime in the early spring, she realized, the idea of doing something naughty sprang into her head.
Not that the notion of having sex was in and of itself naughty. But sometime around Easter break, she recalled, she had mentioned to Naomi that she wanted to do something naughty while her folks went to The Cabin. Of course, Naomi immediately figured Emily meant sex, which caught her off guard. Is that what I mean? But Naomi was hung up: her parents were neurotic about Naomi’s sex life, or perceived sex life, or presumed sex life. Naomi made a show of having experience, but she had privately confided to Em more than once that she was still a virgin and would stay that way until the right guy came along.
But none of that was how Em had been raised. Sex was natural, according to her mother and as soon as Em had her first period, Jen had scheduled an exam. By 16 she was on the pill. A Yankee through and through, Jen Wafton Bronson was practical. Of course Emily would be having sex and it would be irresponsible of her not to give her the tools to stay safe. Emily was embarrassed by the entire idea. At 13 she accepted the exam like any other doctor’s visit and her pediatric gynecologist was as gentle and supportive as one would expect. At 16 she still wasn’t interested in sex but had at least begun to explore the feeling she was getting “down there.” She understood the anatomy of the whole thing. Who didn’t by 16? If not in the health classes or popular culture certainly through random surfing.
When she joined the varsity squad last year right after her 18th birthday, they required a physical, so she returned to her OB/GYN, for the third time, her last with Marcy.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Emily,” Marcy greeted her as she entered the exam room. “How are you doing? Varsity! That’s great! Which sport?”
Em liked her doctor. She was smart, she was sincere and she had always treated her like an adult. She was going to miss her, but they’d discussed it: she would need to graduate to an adult OB.
When it came time to do her pelvic, she noticed a slight change in Marcy’s tone. “So, Em. You know you can be honest with me, right? Everything we discuss is confidential. You said you haven’t been sexually active, and remind me, you’ve been on oral contraceptives for…over a year, right?”
“Two,” Em nodded, watching her doctor’s eyes above the mask. “Is there a problem Marcy?” She hitched up on her elbows a little to get a better look, but at what she wasn’t certain. Only a sheet and her doctor’s half-covered face.
“Well, it looks like there’s been some change in your hymen. You want to see?”
This was a first. She was intrigued. “What do you mean, change? Is it broken?” Em wasn’t that hung up on her hymen. Again, her mother had made her feelings clear: it was just a piece of skin. Being a “virgin” was more about having new experiences, sexual or otherwise, not some blood rite. Still, Em hadn’t done anything that would have broken it.
Marcy laughed gently. “It doesn’t really work that way, contrary to popular culture.” She turned a monitor to face Em. The image on the screen moved erratically, Em’s labia with her fine pubic hair, Marcy’s gloved fingers gently moving her inner labia apart, the view expanding as the scope entered her and then a cave of smooth muscles, glistening darkish pink. “Your vagina looks very healthy Emily. Nice smooth muscle, no tears or physical damage. Your lubricants are healthy; I don’t see any unusual vascular patterns or yeast colonies.” She paused a moment and the camera held steady. “This is your hymen.”
Em looked at the pinkish fringe of tissue extending from her vaginal wall. She looked back at the doctor and shrugged. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Yep. That’s because there isn’t much of it left. When I looked at you last,” and she moved the camera back out, scooting her stool to review Em’s chart, “there was much more margin — at least three millimeters all around.”
“That still doesn’t sound all that much.”
The doctor set the scope down in the sink, turned off the monitor and wiped Em’s labia with a tissue. “No, you’re right. It’s not. Like I said: the myth of the hymen. We’ve talked about this before, right?”
Em nodded. She had been interested, really interested, to know the facts. Marcy had been open and clinical when she had her last exam.
“It’s totally normal for an active young woman like you to experience changes in her hymen without having sexual intercourse. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page so I can be there to help you in every way I can.”
Em understood. kaçak casino She’d been playing with herself a lot more recently, but she hadn’t noticed any pain or bleeding. “No sex. At least not with any partners.” She smiled and the doctor nodded.
“Okay. That’s totally normal and could be the reason. So! You look good. You ready to kick it into high gear on the squad?”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Not that she would have told Naomi any of that stuff. Well, they did compare vibes; that much they’d done together, shopping, of course. Even then, though, Em had chosen a small silver vibrator while Naomi went for a full-on Rabbit.
Em figured her parents’ openness to the topic of sex was to make it less interesting, to prevent it from becoming a taboo. It was one of the reasons, she suggested to Naomi, she had no interest or curiosity in bedding any of the young pups who kept barking and lapping at her. Naomi would laugh at that characterization, but couldn’t disagree. That’s exactly what they looked like. Boys. But she wasn’t sure she agreed with Em’s analysis. Her parents’ notions of sex couldn’t have been more different from her own parents’, Naomi agreed, but, maybe Em wasn’t really ready to have sex.
So, how come, as the Memorial holiday weekend approached, Em felt this growing sexual excitement at the prospect of being entirely on her own this summer?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Emily?” Her mother’s voice from the kitchen called her back to the current moment.
“Coming, Mom.” She finished wiping her hands and joined her parents in the nook.
She looked around and noticed the results of last summer’s remodel, unprepared for the tidal wave of memories that hit her. She hid her reaction by grabbing a water from the fridge, steadying herself with the open door. A fragrance stopped her as she turned back, her eyes glancing at a spray of light pink flowers with a dark centers. “What is that stem, mom?”
“I picked up some sprigs of almond — isn’t it heavenly?”
Her return to the kitchen since the remodel was a confusing mixture of familiarity and fear, shame and arousal. What she had done in this kitchen, in this very chair! She looked down at its seat, thinking twice about sitting, turning instead to the window to look out over the back yard. The morning breeze was picking up, blowing through the cottonwoods, laurel and the lilac tree she’d always loved.
“I’m going to go unpack, k?”
In her room, she was again hit with the wave of memories, a turbulent crashing of childhood sweetness mixing with last summer’s intensity. Her eye caught on the triathlon medal she’d received, a surge of pride at how hard she’d worked and how much Coach’s approval had meant to her. But then she turned to stare at the closet door, and she had to sit on the bed, her body shaking. Closing her eyes she focused on her breathing, letting everything settle. You are safe. You are loved. You are alive!
She had worked through so much with her therapist, reliving last summer’s insanity. She had been stupid, and taken too many risks, but she was here. It had been a relief to talk about with someone. Especially someone legally bound to keep it secret. And, Emily smiled, could hook her up with resources she needed. Calmer now, she looked back to how last summer started; she could see all of the signs, beginning with her mother doing a remodel in the first place. That her mother hadn’t cancelled it even when Emily had decided to stay home. Alone. So many threads that seemed like coincidence at the time. Yet, by summer’s end she knew it had been anything but coincidence.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Em?” Her mother looked up from her work, folding the top flaps under the handle of the basket.
“Hmmm?” She looked up from her phone.
“Let’s go over this one more time.”
She rolled her eyes. It was going to be about the remodeling. Wait for it.
“You know I wouldn’t have done this if I had known you weren’t joining us?” She looked at her, concern written in the wrinkles on her forehead. But they’d already discussed that part, over and over. Her mother decided to go ahead with the remodel anyway, but she was clearly still processing it. “Your father and I had a long talk with Mac about the work. We made it very clear they were to notify you of any changes in the schedule. We’ve met his entire crew and we are counting on you to stay safe.” In spite of taking an authoritarian tone, Jen’s demeanor telegraphed her nervousness at leaving her youngest alone in a house with a construction crew.
“Mom.” Em gave her the full force of her attention. “We’ve gone over this. I’ve talked with Mac. We’ve known each other since I was practically born. He’s practically my uncle for god’s sake. I’m certain he won’t let anything bad happen and I’ll be totally careful, okay? I’ll be at practice most days! We’ve gone over this!” In spite of trying to keep it together, she could hear her voice going up an octave.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32